


E601: Clas Myddrin (Part One)

by arthurreturns



Series: Merlin S6: Arthur Returns [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Merlin S6 Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthurreturns/pseuds/arthurreturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin waits for centuries for the return of a king he sometimes doubts ever existed at all. The time of Albion’s greatest need never seems to come, regardless of the dark years he lives through and all those he must bid farewell. However, in the shadows of the modern age, a darkness grows - one that brings about the thing he has anticipated most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scene I

**Author's Note:**

> See the main blog on tumblr, [arthurreturns](http://arthurreturns.tumblr.com), for more info and follow along the comic version beginning with [this post](http://arthurreturns.tumblr.com/post/106041744511/s6e01-clas-myrddin-part-one-first-01). Tags will be edited as the episode progresses.

The sword disappeared beneath the surface and Merlin watched with breath caught in his throat as the ripples slowly died out across the lake. He was still for a moment, lungs aching in his chest as if he were the one sinking under the water, pressure pressing down around his chest like a vise until he felt like he was drowning. He had considered it – when he placed Arthur in the boat and folded his arms gently across his still, still chest – had considered laying himself down as well, curling up at Arthur’s feet, and just letting the boat out to the depths with him inside.

Because that had been his promise – to be by his side through it all, by his side onto his own death – and yet he had let Arthur go without him. He had gripped at him tight while the warmth faded from his body and only then had loosened his hold with the understanding that Arthur was really truly gone this time.

Until Albion’s need was greatest – whatever that meant. Because what could Albion’s greatest need be except a wise, noble king in a time of a peace? What would he need to wait for to see Arthur again?

He felt as if he was lost for a moment, standing there on the shoreline, as if he did not know what to do with himself and maybe never would again. He swayed with the motion of the water before him, swayed like he was the boat that had rocked gently as it carried Arthur away from him, out of sight for the last time.

There was the sound of a bird cry in the distance and suddenly he could hear the rush of the wind in the trees behind him and the splash of the water against the muddy sand beneath him. With a shuddering breath, Merlin blinked back the burning in his eyes and noticed how the world around him was continuing on, even with Arthur gone.

Water lapped at the toes of his boots, at the slowly drying hems of his trousers, and he realized that he did know what to do. Because this was not the first time he had done this, not even the second. He had known this before, the struggle to pull his eyes from the water and turn away, to willingly lose sight of someone he held dear, to let go of someone that he had lost due to his own failing.

But as he turned this time, the aching pain in his heart stayed fresh, when it had always before dimmed slightly to a weak throb, and the guilt that choked him still felt thick in his throat when he swallowed. He could still taste the words ‘I failed’ on his lips and could still feel Arthur’s shaking hand beneath his fingertips, and he clenched his fists and grit his teeth, blinking back fresh tears as he walked away from the lake that held yet another person he had loved and lost.

 

He managed only a few steps before he paused again, tilting his head back to peer up at the sky. Merlin waited, as the distant dark shape far above grew larger and larger, as Kilgharrah circled down towards him and landed slowly before him.

Kilgharrah inclined his head shallowly at him and said softly, “I could not leave my kin to face this alone, though alone you needed to be when laying him to rest.”

Merlin swallowed, eyes sliding down and away from the dragon to the grass. “You will stay with me then?” he asked the ground, his throat tight around his hoarse words.

He saw Kilgharrah duck down from the corner of his eye, settling low as he always has done for Merlin to climb on his neck. A shudder ran through him when he caught sight of a spot of brownish-red near Kilgharrah’s spine, right where he desperately clutched Arthur to his chest. “I will stay with you for as long as you need me,” the dragon intoned solemnly.

Merlin turned back and saw that Kilgharrah’s eyes are closed as he laid before him, saw that he looked almost as if he were resting, and Merlin suddenly ached even more for the tired, old dragon he thought of as family now, after so many years.

As he stepped towards Kilgharrah, feet heavy and shoulders bent, the dragon muttered, “It is far to Camelot.”

“And I would not have asked this of you,” Merlin replied, hand resting against Kilgharrah’s side, “But you have offered.” He swallowed again and pressed his fingers down with just a bit more strength. “We are both tired, old friend.”

The dragon was quiet then as he pulled himself up and straddled his spine with legs that shook from exhaustion. “There is one stop I want to make,” he added as he dropped his head forward and closed his eyes against the shine of light reflecting back from the scales under him, “So you won’t be making the journey all in one go.” And Kilgharrah shifted beneath him, the stretch of his wings causing the muscles to flex and move throughout his shoulders, and he pushed himself into the air without asking Merlin where he meant.

Because surely he knew.

 

 


	2. Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: “There is one stop I want to make,” he added, “So you won’t be making the journey all in one go.” And Kilgharrah shifted beneath him and he pushed himself into the air without asking Merlin where he meant. Because surely he knew.

And he must have – because without another word, he flew back the way they had come, just hours before, and this time Merlin kept his eyes closed the entire ride, closed against the memory of the desperation that had flooded through him the last time he had flown through the air. And when Kilgharrah set down in the clearing they had been in before, Merlin let himself half-fall, half-slide down to grass that was still wet with morning dew. He skirted around the place they had sat before and he turned to look into the trees surrounding them. “It shouldn’t take me long,” he said to the branches shifting in the slight wind.

“Why have you come here?” Kilgharrah asked, making the ground tremble slightly as he stepped towards Merlin.

Merlin shrugged his shoulders weakly once and then turned his head slightly to face him, “She is of the Old Religion,” he paused, took a deep breath, “I remember the young woman she once was, and that woman does not deserve this.” With that, he turned and stepped towards the trees, to walk back to that place where Morgana lay in silence, to give her the peace of a decent burial.

And Kilgharrah was still there when he returned, nails lined with dirt and palms scratched from lifting stones. Merlin stepped close to him in silence, resting both his shaking hands and his forehead against the dragon’s stiff hide for a long moment before again pulling himself up and over to settle on his neck.

Kilgharrah was quiet beneath him, and they breathed in union in the stillness of the clearing until Merlin turned his eyes away from the distant lake and towards the sky, squeezing his hands tightly around their holds. Kilgharrah launched himself into the air once more, and they left to return to a place Merlin had never wanted to set foot in again without Arthur.

 

Somehow it was already late in the afternoon, leaning towards evening, when Kilgharrah set down in the field Merlin knew by heart after all those years. From his perch, he looked over the grasses, noting the places where the ground was still bare from the flame of the dragon beneath him, and shuddered as he recalled the crow of joy Arthur had sounded when he thought he had ridded his kingdom of a great threat. He was stiff as he tumbled from the dragon’s neck, stiff and weary with the knowledge that this had been the longest day of his life – and that there were still more hours to come.

He looked up at Kilgharrah, blinking against the tiredness in his eyes, and the dragon inclined his head towards him. “I will stay near and you need only come to this place if you wish to leave.”

Merlin reached up towards him and Kilgharrah leaned down so soft skin met rough scales and he said, “You should go find Aithusa. I’m sure she is frightened and confused, and she has been alone for far too long.” He stroked once with his fingers and added, “I’ll call for you if I have need of you, but I do not think I will.”

Kilgharrah reared back, wings shifting behind him as he prepared to fly again, and he replied, almost like a promise, “I will call for you, as well, if I have need and ask that you come when you hear me.” Without waiting for Merlin’s response, the dragon was up in the air again and slowly lumbering away from Camelot. Merlin watched him for a long moment, eyes fixed on the wobble in his flight caused by his weakened wing, before turning to look on the castle in the distance. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward.


	3. Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragon was up in the air again and slowly lumbering away from Camelot. Merlin watched him for a long moment before turning to look on the castle in the distance. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward.

He made it through the town without disruption, though those he knew by name and had spoken with from time to time watched him in careful silence as he passed through their midst. He braced himself against their reaction, expecting more than quiet regard when he finally reached the courtyard proper, and he crossed the drawbridge with slow, cautious steps.

But no one called out to him, no one even looked specially towards his way, even as he entered the courtyard and started towards the main doors. Merlin would have laughed, if he thought himself capable on a day like this, because even after nearly a decade here, he was still just another servant to many of these people.

It was when he was caught up in this thought, nearly choking on the helpless laughter caught in his throat, that his eyes caught Guinevere’s across the expanse of stone. When their gazes locked, Gwen’s eyes went wide and he quickly shifted his away toward the ground. She remained silent, though, as he continued forward with the feel of her gaze hot on his back.

And so he crossed the entire courtyard without interruption, and he realized with a shock as he pulled the door open to slip through that the entire space was filled with people, that there were still soldiers and knights shuffling in with injuries from the battlefield, and that bodies were laid out beneath expanses of cloth on the stones to be collected by families. Merlin let out a shuddering breath and entered the castle, pulling the door shut behind him with the hope that no one would follow him.

Because he needed to get to Gaius’ chambers, needed to see the man who had become like a father to him, needed to lie down on his bed and sleep for at least a day to calm the shaking in his hands. He knew, from the aching of his heart, that he would instead force himself to go find Gwen soon enough, because none of them knew and they all deserved to hear, at the very least, that Arthur would not be returning.

But, for now, he let himself stumble down the hall, listening to the echo of his steps with the knowledge that never again would that sound be accompanied by the one of Arthur’s own heavy, quick steps, that never again would these stones hold the timbre of Arthur’s laugh, that never again would the castle itself be filled with Arthur’s presence.

 

 


	4. Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed to get to Gaius’ chambers, needed to see the man who had become like a father to him, needed to lie down on his bed and sleep for at least a day to calm the shaking in his hands. But, for now, he let himself stumble down the hall, listening to the echo of his steps with the knowledge that never again would that sound be accompanied by the one of Arthur’s own heavy, quick steps, that never again would these stones hold the timbre of Arthur’s laugh, that never again would the castle itself be filled with Arthur’s presence.

He was nearly on the verge of tears again when he reached Gaius’ door and, just as he reached for the handle, it opened before him. Gaius was there before him, juggling supplies in his arms as he struggled to balance too many glass vials in the crook of his elbow. “I’m out to the courtyard,” he said quickly, eyes fixed down towards all he carried as he tried to pass by Merlin’s side, “You’ll have to wait here unless it’s desperate.”

“Gaius,” Merlin croaked, and the man jumped, nearly dropping all he carried, as his eyes snapped up to meet Merlin’s.

He gaped at Merlin for a moment before glancing down at everything in his arms and muttering, “J-just wait,” he turned quickly, dumping the supplies onto a chair next to the door, and spun back to catch Merlin up in his now-free arms. “My boy,” he whispered into Merlin’s ear as he held him tight.

Merlin held still in the embrace for a moment, then brought his hands up and squeezed tight in the back of Gaius’ outer robe. Gaius gave him another tight squeeze and then pulled back, one arm remaining wrapped around his shoulders.

Leading Merlin into the room, Gaius mumbled, “I think there’s still some stew in the pot, I’ll get you a plate ready.” Merlin was deposited on the bench in front of the table as Gaius turned away to get him the food.

Catching up a cup and peering inside with a careful sniff, Merlin took a drink of what he hoped was water and asked cautiously, “You aren’t going to ask?”

Gaius paused mid-step on his way towards the table, then continued over slowly and placed the plate down in front of Merlin. He held out a spoon and gently nudged Merlin’s hand when he made no move to take it.

Merlin ducked his head down to spoon the first mouthful up and fingers carded through his hair gently, the hand settling on his shoulder a moment later. “After all these years, don’t doubt I’ve not learned to read your face, my boy,” Gaius said gently, the grip going tight around Merlin’s shoulder for the length of a breath.

He forced the rest of the stew down a throat that had gone tight with sorrow, Gaius quietly sitting across from him all along. When he put down the spoon, he finally was able to mutter down at the table, “He’s gone.”

Gaius was silent until Merlin chanced a glance up at him and, when their eyes met, he replied quietly, “When we heard the prophecy from the Catha, I suspected this would come to pass. You know as well as I how fate cannot be fought against.” He stood when Merlin shoved the bench back and rose up with his teeth bared. Raising his hands slightly, the older man added, “I had hoped, desperately, that you would be able to stop this, Merlin. I had every faith in you, but still, this comes as no surprise.”

Merlin felt his shoulders shake as he ducked his head and he admitted softly, “I think I knew there would be nothing I could do either.” He let out a self-depreciating laugh, shaking his head, “When has anything I’ve done ever changed anything.”

Swallowing, he gave Gaius a nod, even as the man stepped towards him as if to offer comfort, and backed towards his room. “I’ll just rest for a bit – we can talk tomorrow?”

Gaius offered him a smile, though Merlin could see the sorrow, and something close to pity, in his eyes, “Of course, my boy.”

And he retreated then to his room, collapsing on the bed with a heavy sigh.

Merlin felt frayed at the edges - he had never really felt what Kilgharrah had said, that they were two sides of the same coin, but now he understood. He felt like he had lost half of himself, felt that he was walking in a world with only half of his heart still in his chest, felt like he was half gone, like he would never be complete again, broken and shattered from Arthur's loss as he was.

And he sat in the room he had grown up in, on the bed he had long since outgrown, and felt the rip in his soul ache at the memories of Arthur that filled this place. And it was in that moment that he knew he could never stay here, never stay in Camelot, that he could again never walk the halls he had walked with Arthur with only the sound of his solitary footsteps echoing against stone walls, that he could never again look out from the battlements without the warmth of the man’s presence at his side, that he could never again stand in rooms that had been filled with the voice of his King and listen instead to only the slow, sad beat of his heart sound in his ears.


	5. Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he sat in the room he had grown up in, on the bed he had long since outgrown, and felt the rip in his soul ache at the memories of Arthur that filled this place. And it was in that moment that he knew he could never stay here, never stay in Camelot, that he could again never walk the halls he had walked with Arthur with only the sound of his solitary footsteps echoing against stone walls, that he could never again look out from the battlements without the warmth of the man’s presence at his side, that he could never again stand in rooms that had been filled with the voice of his King and listen instead to only the slow, sad beat of his heart sound in his ears.

It could have been minutes, or maybe even hours, as he lost track of time sitting there in his grief and pain, but there was a soft knock on the door sometime later and he turned his head slightly to call, “Come in,” expecting Gaius offering a bath or more food.

But instead, it was Gwen, slipping in the door and shutting it softly behind herself, eyes searching over Merlin as if she could get the answers to her questions without even speaking.

He swallowed as she paused there by the door then reached over and patted the bed next to himself, his arm feeling heavy even as he moved it.

She sat quietly next to him for a long moment and he tried to ignore the way it was hard to swallow around his choked throat when he glanced over and realized she was wearing a simple, near-white linen shift.

He could tell she was waiting for him to speak and he watched out of the corner of his eye as her hands clenched tight together in her lap. But, Merlin remembered the last time he had returned to Gwen with nothing more than a sword and a cape to take the place of the man she loved and this time she had nothing but a ring and the words of a failure that could not even force them out of his mouth and he squeezed his eyes shut tight.

But she did not ask of Arthur, not of how he died or what his last words were, not if he was in pain or if it was peaceful. She did not even ask why Merlin left his body out there somewhere – and Merlin tried to imagine answering that, trying to explain to her the magic that had been drawn out of him by instinct, by destiny imposing its hand one last time to call Merlin to set him out in that boat on the water.

But, no, she asked none of those things, and Merlin thought she most likely already knew – after all, he was not the only one experienced with loss here in Camelot.

“I’m afraid,” she finally said, the words almost a whisper in the stillness of the room.

Merlin opened his eyes, blinking over at her. He cleared his throat lightly and replied, “You? You’re the bravest woman I know.”

She laughed, and if the laugh was shadowed by a sob, he did not comment, and shook her head. “I don’t think I can do this. Be Queen without him. I…” she swallowed, “I fear you will not stay here, but would you? Stay and help me?”

Merlin turned to her, taking up her hand and squeezing it tightly, “Gwen, you were – you are destined to be Queen of Camelot.” He smiled when she glanced over at him, eyes only slightly wide with shock. “I don’t know when I knew for sure, but even after meeting you, I knew you were meant for something special.” She brought her other hand up, catching Merlin’s up between both of her own, and he smiled again. “This is your place,” and he pulled his hand free gently, “And it is no longer mine.”

Her hands shifted between them, almost as if to chase after his, but she pulled them back into her lap as she said, “I know you would have tried your best to save him. I hope you aren’t saying this because you think anyone will want you gone.”

Merlin shook his hand, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head up slightly. “It wasn’t by chance that I came here to Camelot, wasn’t by chance that I met Arthur, or you, or that any of this happened. I came here for a reason and that reason is gone now.”

“You don’t need to live in the shadow of your destiny, Merlin,” she replied softly at his side, “You can find your own way.”

“Yes,” he agreed, letting his head fall forward to turn and face her again, “And I will find it outside these walls.” He shrugged slightly, “Besides, my mother has lived alone for a very long time, I want to take care of her now.”

She rose then, brushing off her skirt and nodding to herself, “If that’s what you wish.” And the words sounded like rejection.

“Gwen,” he said softly, reaching out towards her. She paused from where she was already stepping towards the door, looked back over her shoulder at him. “If there is ever a thing you need, anything at all, you need only send a letter and I will do it.”

She smiled at him, a watery smile, and nodded, “I thank you.”

Returning the smile, he added, “You were my first friend here, I hope you won’t forget that.”

Gwen inclined her head again, back going straight and chin rising slightly after as she returned to the Queen that she now was, rather than the serving girl he had once known. “You’ll have dinner with me before you leave, then. Please, let me know when you decide to go.”

 


	6. Scene VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shrugged slightly, “Besides, my mother has lived alone for a very long time, I want to take care of her now. If there is ever a thing you need, anything at all, you need only send a letter and I will do it.”

Merlin found Kilgharrah and Aithusa weeks after Camlann – led to a nearby mountainside by a dragon’s call, coming upon them tucked into a dry, warm cave. He was surprised to find them there – Kilgharrah, at least, after all his time beneath Camelot – as they had stuffed themselves in tightly.

Kilgharrah gave a small shrug with his tucked wings at Merlin’s look and said softly when Aithusa trotted out to look at nearby birds. “It seems to give her comfort,” he told Merlin with a small sigh. “She has spent a great deal of her life in dark, dank places.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the little white dragon, who had her head turned up so the sun shined full on it. Turning back with a small smile, he said, “I’m just glad to see you both looking well.”

There was a cry from outside and Kilgharrah stretched his neck out as Merlin ran to the cliff’s edge to peer down at Aithusa, who seemed to have fluttered down and was sunning herself on a rock. “For how long that will remain to be seen,” Kilgharrah intoned dryly as he curled back up in the dark of the cave as Merlin scrambled down to try to teach the young dragon to speak.

He returned there often and once, on a relatively cool day in summer, led his mother there as well. Because she had loved his father and, if things had been different, would have seen and spoken with dragons often.

Her eyes went wide as she turned from brushing off her skirt from the climb and came face-to-face with Kilgharrah, or face-to-shoulder as it was. “Kilgharrah,” she greeted with a curtsy.

Nodding back deeply, he replied, “Lady Dragonlord.”

She blushed at the words, opening her mouth to speak before being interrupted by a chirp that sounded vaguely like the name ‘Aithusa.’ The white dragon came barreling out, awkwardly still though her limbs were correcting themselves slightly as she grew, to be caught around her neck by Merlin’s arms.

Merlin tugged her away to leave the others to speak, smiling as he caught his mother saying, “Balinor mentioned you from time to time, but never how large you would be.”

Even with Aithusa trilling in his ear, it was easy to hear Kilgharrah’s reply of “And I had foreseen you many times, but never imagined how caring a wife and mother you would be for my kin.”

 

Heading out to the fields one morning, a few years in to his stay in Ealdor, Merlin opened the door to find Gaius smiling up at him. The older man explained how he had trained up a replacement physician – giving Merlin a look and muttered comment of “since my last one retired before I did” – and had come to live here, if Hunith would have him.

She smiled widely, taking his hands and grasping them tight while replying, “Of course you can stay! You are like family after all those years taking care of my boy.”

So Gaius took the bed in the small extension Merlin had added on to the house and Merlin was back to sleeping on the ground most nights, and on the small cot near the fire when it was too cold for anything else.

But it was good, Gaius coming, because it meant his mother had someone else to talk to in the evenings and also meant Merlin could again study the books Gaius had brought along with him, books of spells and enchantments and history. And he read them while all along ignoring the thought that it was all wasted time, because he had no one to protect anymore, not like he once did, because he could not let go of the hope that one day he would have that reason again.

Besides the books however, Gaius brought a letter from Gwen. He handed it over after Hunith had gone to sleep one evening, softly saying, “She asked if I thought you would consider visiting, but I told her it would be best to send a letter instead.” He let Merlin look down at the letter in his hands for a moment and then patted him on the shoulder as he moved past him towards the back room. “It is only a request, from a friend you once knew well.”

He opened the letter when the house was still and quiet, sitting before a fire that popped softly as it dimmed and faded, and read what Gwen had worked up the courage to request.

And so he left in the morning a few weeks later, pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheek and giving Gaius a firm hug. “I shouldn’t be long,” he said firmly as he started stepping backwards. “A few weeks at most. I’m sure Gaius can figure out some way to contact me if you need it.”

They smiled at him, waved him off, and he left that village with just a little excitement in his heart, because he finally had something to do besides wait, wait, wait.

 

It was easy to find them – the Druids seemed to be everywhere in the forests, and Merlin only had to sketch the triskelion Mordred had borne on his wrist in the dirt a few times before he was approached and invited to a camp.

They were wary, of course, at first, looking at him with questioning eyes and asking where he had spent his time since the war. They seemed to accept his staying to care for his mother easily and did not ask what he had done in the years before, smiling at him and offering him a warm supper in the chill of the evening.

He stayed with them for several days, helping with the gathering of herbs and food in the nearby clearings and watching over the children from time to time, before he sat down one evening and spoke to them of the Queen of Camelot.


	7. Scene VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: He stayed with the Druids for several days, helping with the gathering of herbs and food in the nearby clearings and watching over the children from time to time, before he sat down one evening and spoke to them of the Queen of Camelot.

It took several years and quite a few missives sent back and forth – along with Merlin carefully explaining events to both parties as neutrally as possible –but there came a day when Merlin returned to Camelot for the treaty of the unified Druid Council and the Five Kingdoms.

He brought his mother along, and Gaius, and left them both in the lower town so he could transform into Emrys. He had already explained to the Druid delegation – how he had memories of Camelot he would rather not dredge up with his normal form – and they had nodded, familiar with the spell and asking if they should do the same.

They would appear as they always did though and he would not, and he kissed his mother on the cheek as he stepped away, gesturing towards the citadel with a wane smile.

And when he was ushered into the throne room the next morning, Gaius stepped up to him quickly and drew him into a friendly embrace. As he pulled back, he commented, “I must admit I never would have imagined you being an accomplished diplomat, but here you are.”

Merlin scoffed at him, trying to stay in character though he wanted to hug the older man again. He turned slightly, watching as Gwen approached with a soft smile on her face. A group of knights waited on the face side of the room, lined behind the large table they would sit at while signing the documents.

He bit his lip when he realized only a few there were instantly recognizable – several of them seemed to look like those he remembered being in training before, but the rest he knew must have come since Camlann, and the gaping hole it had left in Camelot’s forces.

Gwen reached him then, and he bowed slightly over her hand and she took his arm to approach the table. The Druids nodded to him as he passed by and he inclined his in return as Gwen began to speak to all there to witness of how the hatred and anger between their two peoples would hopefully be put to rest on this day.

And when the treaty was notarized, Gwen squeezed his hand tight under the table and he squeezed back, catching Leon’s eyes far across the room and almost flinching at the anger he saw there.

Percival found him after, in the midst of sending the Druids off, and he gripped Merlin’s shoulders tight, with a loud, “You old coot! You’re looking good for being so old – I need to be on your diet.”

With a sniff, Merlin replied with a nod to Percival’s bicep, “I think you eat plenty well for yourself, young man.”

Percival barked out a laugh, releasing him and turning to Leon with a grin. The other knight studied Merlin and gave him a stiff nod before turning away to approach Gwen. Percival clapped Merlin hard again on the shoulder and then turned away as well.

And Merlin watched them walk away as he had once done to them and turned to leave for Ealdor, feeling as old as he looked for the moment.

 

He did not go that first year, or the second, or for any until he was all alone in that little house in Ealdor. His mother had left in the quiet of dark one night, hand loosely clasped in Merlin’s as he watched from her bedside. She had pressed something soft and worn in his hand in the evening, patted his hand when he looked down at the rabbit’s foot that lay there. “Think of me,” she had said and he had nodded and held both it and her hand tight as he watched the last of his family pass away.

He packed up that year – gave away the things his mother had not treasured and the rest, along with the books from Gaius, ended up buried in the little cellar under Will’s old, empty house.

He left then, because the people kept quiet as long as his mother was with him, but he knew there would be asking soon enough why he never showed his age like all the rest.

And he left with one item in his pack he would have rather left behind. But the loneliness was too much that year- had been too much as he held his mother’s hand as she drifted off to sleep one last time, had been too much when he found in Will’s cellar a collection of things he had almost for the meaning of – the first branch Merlin ever dropped from a tree carefully whittled down to be the toy sword they used to play with, a feather from the first bird Merlin ever managed to heal, the stone Merlin had always used to win their no-magic-allowed skipping races across the pond just through the woods.

He had thought by now he had grown used to the waiting, used to the loneliness, but it was too much that year. He could not wait any longer, not without doing something.

So he left with a pack on his back and a staff in his hand and the village of Ealdor watched him leave, and only the children waved goodbye.

And he walked and counted the days and ached all the while because he was tired of waiting. He reached the Stones the day before Samhain and set down his pack and sat in the grass and waited for the night to come – all the while fiddling with the Horn in his grasp.

Midnight brought the moonlight bright on his face and a swirl of mist through the Stones and the soft chirps of birds in the distant trees and a tremble in his hands he wondered at, because he had felt so numb for days.

When he stepped up to the circle of stones, he could not help but hesitate before taking bringing the Horn to his lips. But he fixed the image – already fading with time and that is why he had to do this now – of Arthur as he saw him last most intimately, smiling up at him with pain lining the edges of his eyes but with courage still shining up at him from the depths – in his mind and lifted the Horn.

The sound broke out in the quiet night and Merlin blinked back the memories from the last time he had heard that humming note as his fingers tightened around the handle. The horn call faded slowly, the Stones reverberating with the sound for almost too long as Merlin held his breath and blinked at the mist.

It was silent around him soon enough and he grit his teeth as the time passed, passed without a single movement around him but the swirling of the mist. And he lowered his hands back down to his side, Horn grasped loosely in his right, and shook his head as the sounds of the night filled his ears again – the chirping of the insects in the grass and the soft cheeping of the birds.

He sat there in the center of the Stones until dawn’s light broke on his face, the night spent listening to whispers in his ears of voices that failed to match the one he thought of and watching the specters of those he had lost slip by in front of him because none of them were the form he was waiting for.

And he stood up with the morning’s sun was shining bright across the field and the Stones were already casting shadows across his face, and he turned and left that place with a heavy heart and lowered eyes, very carefully not looking back over his shoulder.

 

Until he returned the next year, and the next. And it was like an addiction, an itch that settled under his skin every fall, when he watched the people beginning to harvest their crops across the land, a thrumming in his fingertips to grasp the Horn again and sound it until he ran out of breath in his lungs. Because it was doing something, trying something, instead of just waiting day after day, month after month hopelessly. It was the only thing he could do that filled him with just a little bit of hope.

And sometimes he gave in to the ache in his heart, sometimes he called out the name of someone whose face had started to fade from his memory, and he would spend the night talking about days long gone with people with names that were legends by now. He never told them, never told Gwen what they said even though Merlin had tried to refute it and cut off the tale, never told Gwaine that his final, courageous moments had been lost to time, never told any of them how long had really passed, how long beyond them he lived – if only to avoid the pity in their eyes.

And sometimes there were others there, those that had heard of the power that rested in that space, locked into the earth by the careful arrangement of the Stones by some unknown people so long ago, and Merlin would wait at the fringes until they completed whatever ceremony they had come to enact. He would wait and feel the magic pulsing through him with an awareness that had grown more and more sensitive the longer he walked the land of Albion, until he could feel magic in the air that brushed against his skin and in the water he brought to his lips and in the ground beneath his toes. And he would shake his head when their spells failed, familiar with the feeling of disappointment, and he would smile when they succeeded, smile as his own magic crept out almost against his will to mix with theirs, strengthening their incantations without their knowledge. And he would wait until they left, stumbling away from the Stones almost drunk on their own magic or exhausted from expending it with no result, and he would slip in after them and blow the Horn with his heart fluttering in his chest because maybe this year, maybe that magic was enough to draw Arthur’s attention from whatever kept him on the other side. And he would always leave in the morning, face turned firmly towards the trees.

And for a while that was enough, enough to tide him over year to year, the little spot of almost-reckless hope he nurtured back to life just for that one night.

Until it finally failed to be enough, until that hope finally dwindled after yet another year of seeing everyone but Arthur reaching out for him from the other side. He went that year, shedding his appearance as he went so he looked young again when he stepped up to the Stones.

And Merlin brought the Horn to his lips and held it there, brushing against his skin as he whispered with all the longing in his heart filling his voice, “Please, Arthur, please.” The sound filled the clearing then, wavering through the night air in an almost-broken call that followed after his whisper and echoed back to him from the Stones. “Please,” came the soft word, twined in with the lonely call of an old, old horn.

He shuddered back from the sound, eyes squeezed tightly shut for a moment as he pressed the Horn hard against his lips once more. He blew again, blew until his chest felt sharply the pain of empty lungs, and he swept his head from side to side, looking for a glint of chainmail or a flutter of a cape.

But there was nothing, nothing more than the distant forms of those he had rejected year after year until they no longer came close. He squinted at them, remembering years before when he would sometimes succumb and reach out to them, reach out and speak to the only ones in the whole land who still remembered him for who he was, and he mouthed a silent apology to them before squeezing down with his hand.

And the Horn cracked in his grip with a loud, clear snap, the sound seeming to cut off the echoes and filling the circle with quiet.

He looked down at the pieces in his hands and blinked in confusion when all he could see were blurry forms. His tears landed in his palms, sliding down to rest against the halves of horn in his grasp, and he turned away from that place for the last time, broken just like the once-whole thing he carried with him.

 


	8. Scene VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: His tears landed in his palms, sliding down to rest against the halves of horn in his grasp, and he turned away from that place for the last time, broken just like the once-whole thing he carried with him.

There was a long period of time – relatively, that is – for Merlin when magic in Albion was being ushered out for a new system of beliefs. The Druids that remained were weak in their gifts, if they had any at all, clinging to the stories and traditions of their predecessors as if to keep their magic alive.

The land that had once been the Five Kingdoms had united under Gwen’s rule, following the foundations Arthur had laid down, and slowly drifted apart when she passed on, lesser lords on the outer edges splitting off to form their own kingdoms until there was nothing familiar to Merlin about the political lay of the land.

He considered it often in those years, deciding after a time that he guessed that decline began with the death of Annis, Queen of Camelot’s greatest ally.

Merlin had learned of it via letter sent by Gwen to Ealdor, happening to arrive when he was between trips to the Druids. His mother had kissed his cheeks and Merlin had left with the regret that Gaius had passed not two years before, so that he was forced to leave her alone.

But he went quickly and arrived before Annis had passed. He snuck in later in the evening – and shook his head briefly at how much more attentive her guards were than those of Camelot of old, though not enough for him – and made his way to her bedside.

Merlin was surprised to find her looking to aged, for his mind’s visions of her had always been as he had seen her last on a battlefield, fierce and strong, and he had come to forget just how the passage of time could touch another so distinctly.

Sleeping when he arrived, the queen woke with a slow exhalation and turned her head to peer at Merlin. She took in a sharp breath and said, softly and with a hoarse voice, “I never thought I would see you live when Arthur did not.”

Merlin swallowing, taking the seat at her side and laying his hand on the bed next to hers for her to take if she wished. “I never thought I’d be alive without him either,” he admitted, voice equally soft.

She sighed then, eyes slipping closed, and she muttered, “So you are real then. It’s hard to tell at this point.” Her gaze fixed on his again as her eyelids fluttered back open. “I should have guessed, though, as he was always so fond of you. Surely he never would have let you be harmed before himself.”

Merlin laughed weakly, eyes filling with something like tears, though they did not fall, and he squeezed her hand when her fingers brushed against his.

“It makes me feel young again, to see you like this,” she admitted when his eyes were dry again. And he accepted that as acknowledgement and thanks both and said nothing of it.

Just as the dawn light was slipping through the window, he squeezed her hand again and brought it to his lips to press a kiss to the back. “To Queen Annis,” he murmured as she breathed her last.

 

He received news of Gwen by letter as well, years after he had left Ealdor, and that the letter found him at all would have been a wonder in itself, if not that it had been delivered by a raven/crow that had a hint of magic in its eye.

It had flown off with a croaking cry, tangling with some other bird up above and black feathers fluttered down at Merlin as he read the letter. He caught one of them, running it between his fingers as he tried to determine which way was North in the middle of the forest.

He did not go in when he arrived at the castle, for they had said their goodbyes years before when she arranged to visit him outside of Camelot, meeting instead in the place where her father’s grave lay as she left her kingdom to one of her children.

They had only met at graves, it seemed, these past few times. When she had first come to see him, when his mother still lived and her first child was old enough to take her place for a time, Merlin had gently led her to the lake. He could not show her the ephemeral hints of Avalon that lay just beyond, revealed with that spell he had learned long ago, but he could show her where Arthur had breathed his last.

She had stood at the lake’s edge for a time, looking out over the water in silence. “Very well,” she said, turning back to him with hands folded before her and a light smile on her lips, “I thank you.”

And she had taken his arm and let him lead her away from that peaceful place. And they neither said anything about the dampness of their cheeks on that quiet evening.

So, at that hillside, she pulled the ring off her thumb where she had worn it her thumb since passing off the throne. With gentle words, she explained how she had ordered an identical one made for the next ruler, but that this was the one Arthur had worn. “I wish for you to have it,” she said, folding his fingers over it as he tried to protest, “As I’m sure Arthur would have.”

And they had hugged a last time and parted when the sun was still bright enough for her return trip with the guards who waited at a distance. And now Merlin stood, listening as it was announced Guinevere Pendragon was laid in the Throne Hall for the wake – that she would be entombed with the Pendragons with the next dawn – and Merlin traced a finger over the cloth at his neck, where beneath the Pendragon ring lay, smiling at the thought of Gwen laying in honor next to Uther Pendragon.

 


	9. Scene IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: And now Merlin stood, listening as it was announced Guinevere Pendragon was laid in the Throne Hall for the wake and Merlin traced a finger over the cloth at his neck, where beneath the Pendragon ring lay, smiling at the thought of Gwen laying in honor next to Uther Pendragon.

It was only after he broke the Horn, years and years filled with wandering through old and new battlefields and peaceful villages and Druid camps, that Merlin returned to the lake by himself for the first time. At first, standing there in the damp earth of the lakeside, he wondered if he had never returned because of the memories that were already rising to the forefront of his mind – time-faded as they were, but still achingly painful – or because of the guilt that filled him as he looked out across the water.

Because he had put Arthur there, placed him in a boat and set him out to drift, and what if he could not return because Merlin sent him somewhere he was not meant to be?

He tried to recall what spells he had used, as he had over all these years, but – just as when he was a child letting magic use him rather him use it – the words had crept out of him almost unbidden, instinctively, and he would probably never recall them. And so, too, he could not recall the spell that could summon the boat, to take him to the Isle of the Blessed.

And Merlin wondered if perhaps Arthur was just waiting there, wondered if Merlin was supposed to go and find him, if that is what fate had intended instead of this long wait. That thought, though, was more painful than the first. Because if Arthur was waiting, just as Merlin was waiting, but knew that Merlin was to come for him and yet did not, that thought alone was enough to make Merlin shudder. And, yes, perhaps he had stayed away not just because he could not remember, but because he feared facing this place again without being able to find Arthur would be just another failure to take place on this lakeside.

Merlin did, however, recall another spell and he used it now, stretching his hand out over the water and forcing the magic to channel through him instead of a staff.

The water grew still as the wind around the lake died off. Merlin held his breath as everything around him seemed to slow to a stop. In that timeless moment, he wondered if perhaps he was a bit Sidhe, or shared something with them that forced him to live apart from all the other people he had known, ageless and free from the passage of time just as Avalon seemed to be.

The line of thought broke as a Sidhe rushed at his face, coming to a stop as he blinked and fluttering nearly on his nose. “Emrys,” it hissed, grinning at him with sharp teeth bared.

Stepping back slightly, Merlin nodded and replied, “I’ve come with a question for you.”

The Sidhe tilted its head from side to side, peering at him. “You wish to know of the mortal one, who once was and who maybe is and who will possibly someday come.”

Merlin opened his mouth to speak but the Sidhe cut him off. “I cannot tell you of him – it is not for me to say, and not for you to know.” He clenched his hands tight at his side, starting to turn away. The Sidhe’s next words cause him to pause, however. “But if you came to this realm, that knowledge would be yours.”

He studied the creature before him as it continued, crooning, “Come to the ageless land, the realm of magic, where you belong, and you will see him. He may never return to this place, but there you could remain with him forever.”

Unable to stop himself from giving in to the temptation, Merlin allowed himself to imagine it briefly. How difficult would it be to wait in Avalon for Arthur’s return instead, at his side instead of alone and forgetting already the sight of his face?

Agreement was on the tip of his tongue when he caught himself, blinking. “Why do you offer this?” he asked, wariness creeping into his tone before he could stiffen the words. He narrowed his eyes as he added, “You have no love for mortals, or for this realm. Even I am not high in your regard, for that matter.” Swallowing, he cautiously asked, “You mean to keep me there. Arthur would return and I would be trapped in your keep with no escape, wouldn’t I?” Or, perhaps even with Merlin’s passing into that realm, Arthur would be handed over to the Sidhe somehow. Merlin recalled their desire for the fresh soul of a prince, how much more sweet would the soul of the Once and Future King be to them?

The Sidhe cackled, flitting out of his reach, and called back, “Perhaps! But perhaps not!” And then it was diving into the lake’s surface, leaving not even a ripple as it passed to the other side. A strong wind blasted past Merlin, whipping his hair across his forehead, and he remained there for a while, staring out at the rippling waves.

 


	10. Scene X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: A strong wind blasted past Merlin, whipping his hair across his forehead, and he remained there for a while, staring out at the rippling waves.

He could not bear the sight of the lake then and when Merlin left that place, he remembered the last time he had been there, with Gwen. He remembered how they had grieved together as they walked the same path he walked now and he wondered if that sorrow, the same sorrow that filled him now, would ever leave him.

He felt the passage of time all the more keenly then, as the years went by and Gwen had been the last he had known to remain in the land, and somehow as he wandered, he ended up in the Crystal Cave.

Suddenly filled with the overwhelming urge to look, he walked to the place he had been when his magic had been recovered so long ago.

The earth seemed to pulse beneath his feet there, the air charged with something that made his fingers tingle. He turned in a tight circle, eyes searching for any sign of movement. But his father did not appear, and neither did Arthur, so he stepped up to the largest of the crystals there.

Placing his hands on the sides, he leaned in close and whispered, “Show me Arthur.”

His breath caught in his throat as Arthur appeared before him – Arthur as he had known him, before he was king, young and arrogant and alive, alive, alive.

He could not leave that place, not for quite some time. He filled his days with the sight of Arthur, triggering memories he had already begun to forget he had forgotten. At times, all he would see would be the surface of the lake, shining with the sun or rough with winds and rain or reflecting back the night sky. Occasionally, he would see the land from above, a slowly circling view of the castle – which he knew was because, to Arthur, Camelot had been a part of him, its streets his veins, its people his lifeblood, its citadel his heart. But, sometimes, it was nothing more than vague scenes of the land and, after much studying, he realized it was the sight of the Cave from above or of his mother’s house in Ealdor or a path Merlin had walked many times in the past years.

After too long, he lost track of his years, all jumbling together inside his head, and he could not remember how long it had been since he left Camelot, could not remember if his mother had passed first or if it had been Gaius, could not remember how anything had occurred – only that it had and he could relive it again and again.

But he never saw the future – never saw Arthur not as-he-was, but as-he-would-be.

Though he did see himself, walking and walking and walking, lost without his king.

Finally, he could take no more and stumbled out of that place feeling as if his teeth were buzzing with magic and he was blind in the light of day. But he had been blind to anything but Arthur for so long that he barely even noticed. Just put one foot in front of the other and walked.

 

He made a place on the lake eventually, tucked in amongst and under the trees, hidden from sight, and remained there for quite some time, as close to Arthur as he could manage. He spent days swimming in the lake, diving down and scouring the bottom until his lungs felt ready to burst. He never found anything, at least not anything he looked for – not the gleam of a sword or the sight of a slowly rotting boat or the touch of a hand that had once rested on his cheek.

Occasionally others would find the lake, those who had magic in their blood like he did – though greatly diluted in comparison – and some would see him swimming deep in the depths of the clear water. “Kelpie,” he would hear them whisper as they crept away, swearing to never return for fear he would feast on their bones.

But there were no creatures of magic in the land anymore – none so dangerous as that, at least. Merlin had had centuries, after all, and nothing else to do but watch over the people of the land. He had learned one thing in all his years with Arthur, if only one, and that was how to hunt. And, staying on the lake as he did, he could watch for the Sidhe to pass over, searching for those they wished to bespell and lead back into their land.

And the lesser creatures, those of good magic, there was not much land left for them either. Merlin had spent some years walking the forest with Anhora – leaving him from time to time to visit with the Druids there – but always returning to speak with one who had known but him and Arthur both. The Keeper of the Unicorns had taught him any things, about using the ley lines to pass from place to place, to speak to the trees and the creatures in the common language of all, to refine his magic to subtle touches rather than brute force spells. And then, he had said one day that it was time for him to leave, time to lead those in his care into Avalon where they could live free from danger for the rest of their days, because the world was becoming harsher, the natural magic was fading from even the land itself, and he could no longer remain as he had.

So Merlin had gripped him close – one of the only friends he had known for so many years – and asked him to watch over Arthur when he reached Avalon.

 


	11. Scene XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: So Merlin had gripped Anhora close – one of the only friends he had known for so many years – and asked him to watch over Arthur when he reached Avalon.

He spends several years wandering from place to place as a bard. It has been long enough that the people he meets are ones who never lived a day on the earth that Arthur Pendragon did as well.

So he settles in for a night or two in each place, sitting before a fire in the evenings as a crowd gathers around- just as in those Druids camps so long ago – and tells them of the Camelot of old, when magic roamed the land freely and knights were common men and the king was young and golden-haired.

The people listen eagerly, with wide eyes and gasps of fear or delight. After a few months, Merlin starts to hear new stories told back to him – stories building on his mention of the Round Table, stories of knights he never knew and magic the likes of which he had never known. But he smiled and listened, because the thought of someone, anyone, speaking Arthur’s name again in this land made him feel less alone.

He enjoys that time, until, of course, he happens to tell the story of the Cup of Life and the Immortal Army one day in the hall of a lord. A child eagerly asks him, at the end, where the Cup is now, and Merlin smiles and says softly, “It is somewhere far away, hidden so none can use it.”

Because long ago, he took the Cup to Anhora when he learned a group of Druids were seeking it out for some reason that made his heart catch in his throat, and had asked him to step along the lines of the earth until he found a place none could seek it. His friend had looked at him – in a way similar to how Kilgharrah had once looked, as if to fathom him out – and asked, “And the lake is not fitting enough? For even I cannot reach it without great effort, when I have the intent to find it.”

Merlin had squeezed his eyes tightly shut, imagining a group of bloodthirsty Druids finding their way to the lake – forcing their way through the magical protections on it that kept it safe from trespassers, intruding on the final resting place of not only Arthur but Freya and Lancelot as well – and shook his head. “Not there,” he had said softly, “Please, not there.”

So, the Cup was gone away, somewhere safe, and the one who had hidden it gone away too, so Merlin added, “And there is not a soul on this earth that can find it.”

But beyond the edge of the circle, the lord was listening and took word to his king of a Cup – of a Grail – of a most Holy Grail, surely, for it could give the drinker eternal life.

And somehow, Merlin found himself watching in horror as an army left the land, to travel south and scour the Christian Holy Land for an object long forgotten by the rest of the world.

He grit his teeth as the years passed, as men fought a horrible war in a land not their own because of his own words. And, yet, he held his breath all the while, because surely this would be enough for Arthur to return.

But he did not, not after Crusade after Crusade followed, not after a horrible plague filled the land – one Merlin discovered was led to Albion by a curse rooted in the ships, one that he suffered from himself in painful agony, on the verge of death for too long, before finding the sorcerer who cast it and destroying him – not when war after war ravaged across their land.

And time crept forward and Merlin wandered the ruins of places he had once lived and he watched with tired eyes as rulers sprung up and fell – none ever matching up to Arthur in his eyes, for all his faults – and Merlin waited.

He waited while bombs fell on the land he loved, using all the magic he had to protect those he could, while the people fought amongst themselves as they always had, as the good that was hidden in the world continued to shine through and give him just enough hope not to bring the whole world crashing down around him.

And he considered that – from time to time – considered if he would be enough threat for Arthur to return. It was easy to imagine just sinking his fingers into the earth and calling up all the magic that waited there eagerly, to set it free and allow it to ravage(syn) the land until nothing remained standing.

But the thought of the cries of terror it would incite from women and children, the way the land itself would be ruined, the disappointment and anger in Arthur’s eyes if he could see.

The betrayal Arthur would feel.

Those thoughts were enough for Merlin to hold himself back. He had made a promise to Arthur – his magic was only for him – and unless Arthur returned and asked for it, Merlin would never do such a thing.

As much as he wanted to.

 

So he walked and he wandered and sometimes he settled in a place and took on work, mindless though it was, to distract himself from the waiting. He would stay until people began wondering why exactly he never seemed to grow old. There was a time when he forced himself to age naturally and he ‘retired’ to the countryside to live in a manor there all on his own.

He spent days wandering the place and eventually ended up sitting alone in the largest room, just waiting and waiting. He recalled, after a time, another man he had encountered once, who had waited for the time he had foreseen to come and then he had been released from it all.

Merlin thought of it, in those days, of just fading away, of being free from the waiting and to just let go of it all. But then, the thought of Arthur came to his mind and he forced himself up and out of the chair, forced himself to return to his young appearance, and he took his things and left that place to fade away all by itself.

Arthur became almost an idea to him, a distant goal and dream, a deep-seated belief. He grit his teeth through invasions and famines and plagues, through the world wars themselves, and all along chanted ‘Arthur will return, Arthur will return’ to himself, repeating the promise that magic itself had made to him.

Reminding himself of his destiny.

He dreamed of it many times, of Arthur returning, dreamed of it in so many different ways. He once, or maybe it was often, woke from one of those dreams with tears filling his eyes because it had not really happened, Arthur had not really returned and Merlin was still alone and maybe he never would come back.

The thought haunted him with each passing year, that he would wait and wait and wait and one day look up and realize he was all alone in the world, that all the rest had passed on and yet he remained. And what cause would Arthur have to return then?

From time to time, he wondered if instead Arthur would return in some other way – return in another appearance, perhaps. So he watched carefully and some did come who seemed to be like Arthur, to be filled with the thoughts he had been, to enact the same deeds, and some of them were men and some of them were women and Merlin would ease his way to their sides and wait to see. But none of them were ever Arthur and soon he stopped trying to seek them out, because every time he merely felt all the more hopeless.

But he continued on waiting, because there was no alternative. He would wait and Arthur would come, or he would wait and Arthur would not. Either way, to wait was all he had now, so he did.

 


	12. Scene XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: He would wait and Arthur would come, or he would wait and Arthur would not. Either way, to wait was all he had now, so he did.

There was a sound of wing beats behind him and Merlin flinched away as black feathers flashed by his face. Frowning, he glanced over himself, looking for something shiny exposed enough to draw the attention of a crow. But, he could only see the dull, tired Horn pieces strapped to his belt loop, the dark leather of his old water flask, the gray fur of the rabbit’s foot half-tucked in his pocket where he had been worrying at it. His skipping stone was deep and secure in his opposite pocket, but his head crept toward his neck as he recalled what hung from a twine there.

Arthur’s – the Pendragon – signet ring and a polished dragon took.

He clutched both tight in his fist as he turned to face the bird behind him, ready to shout it off.

But it was not a crow, but a little chough – beak a dull orange rather than the black he had expected – perched on a rock behind him and tilting its head to the side to peer at him with one eye.

And then his mouth, open slightly as he had been preparing to shout, fell open completely as the bird fluttered its wings and the air around it seemed to shimmer. Within moments, a man stood before him instead of a chough, blinking in the sun and shockingly naked.

Familiarly naked, actually.

Merlin stared, jaw dropped and eyes wide for a moment, before a laugh burst from his lips. “Of course!” he cried, the man before him jumping and staring back at him, “Of course, of course. What else but a bird! This one, I have to admit, is new, but my imagination must be running wild today.” Shaking his head, he turned away, “And naked too…I haven’t even thought about that in centuries.”

He took a few steps away, shaking his head and laughing, before there came a cry from behind him. “Where do you think you’re going? I don’t have any clothes!”

Merlin rolled his eyes and continued forward, slipping in between the branches of a bush to pass out of the clearing.

“See,” his imagination mused through the man, “This is why I never gave you days off, you get all lazy and refuse to do your work.” There was a rustle, then a yelp as Merlin guessed the man attempted to slide through the bush.

Pausing, Merlin glanced over his shoulder and said, “You know, he didn’t even have a scar there on his thigh.”

“I did – do too!” he protested, rubbing at his bare stomach where there was a fresh red scratch.

Merlin turned around, stomping forward toward the road, muttering under his breath that this had gone on long enough, that surely this would stop if he went out in public.

“Wait, the road?” he heard from behind, “For gods’ sake, just give me your coat.”

Rolling his eyes again, Merlin turned around and sighed. “I’m going to toss this rock at you and when it goes right through you, you’d better disappear,” he declared, reaching into his pocket.

“Throw a rock?” Arthur squawked and then yelped sharply when the skipping stone pelted him in the chest. He frowned down at second red mark and then narrowed his eyes as he looked back up at Merlin. “Is this any way to treat your king?” he asked, drawing up straight and puffing his chest out.

Merlin stared at him for a moment, then forced his eyes away and down, because Arthur was still naked after all, and muttered to the grass, “This can’t be real. He was a bird. I just saw Arthur transform from a bird into a man.”

“Merlin!” Arthur snapped, “Clothes. Now.” He paused from where he was brushing feathers from his hair to glare at Merlin.

Nodding, Merlin replied, “Of course, just –” and quickly shucked his pack from his shoulders. He rustled through it for a moment and then handed over a pair of trousers with a muttered, “I’ve really gone insane this time. A chough, really?”

Arthur paused where he was drawing the trousers up one leg and cleared his throat. “Not a – I was a raven.”

He could not help but laugh at the absurdly of the entire situation, watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye as the man struggled with the zipper. He shot Merlin another glare and remarked, with a gesture at his waistline, “You used to help me with this.”

“Not with that,” Merlin said, echoing the gesture back. He turned back around as soon as he said it, staring down at his hands that had begun shaking at some point. Pinching the inside of one wrist and jumping at the sensation, he glanced back over his shoulder at the man who was now frowning down at his legs and bending his knees slightly to test the stretch of the fabric.

Clutching his hands together before him, he asked, “Are you sure you’re really Arthur?” Arthur wrinkled his nose at him, opening his mouth with most likely a degrading retort and Merlin quickly added, “It’s just, you just flutter down as a chough –”

“A raven.”

“A bird and well, I always imagined this would involve a lot more water, you know?” Arthur shook his head slightly and sighing heavily, Merlin said, “It’s hard to remember what you looked like – I’m sure you don’t know, but it’s been a very long time. I’m old, Arthur.” And to prove his point, he forced himself to shift to his older form with a spell muttered under his breath.

Arthur gaped at him, then shouted, “You were the old sorcerer?”

Frowning himself this time, Merlin said back, almost accusingly, “I told you I was at Camlann, when I told you I had magic. Didn’t you understand?”

Throwing his arms up in the air, Arthur cried, “Sorry I was too busy dying to make connections between my friend and a bearded old man!”

Merlin sucked in a breath at the word ‘friend’ and then shuddered back to his other appearance as Arthur took a step towards him. When the man reached him, he took Merlin’s hand and said, “Is this enough proof that I’m who you think I am?” as he placed Merlin’s palm against the rough scar on his chest.

The one right near his heart.

He brushed his fingers against it and swallowed as he recalled the sight of the torn, raw wound, remembered how Gaius had gently pushed him back and told him to go collect fresh herbs to treat it, remembered how every breath had caused Arthur pain and how he had been helpless to do anything. Lifting his eyes, he met Arthur’s gaze and breathed out, “My lord.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clas Myddrin to be completed in Episode 2, Clas Myddrin (Part Two)


End file.
